


Sand

by spirograph



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuckler cradles Hoosier's heavy sacks in his hands. "What the hell you got in these things?" he asks, wiggling his fingers slightly to try and figure out their contents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sand

**Author's Note:**

> This is just some cracky comment!fic. THIS PAIRING NEEDS MORE LOVE.

Chuckler cradles Hoosier's heavy sacks in his hands. "What the hell you got in these things?" he asks, wiggling his fingers slightly to try and figure out their contents. Hoosier's reply is a distracted grunt around his cigarette. 

At present, he's rifling through Leckie's belongings, looking decidedly perturbed. "where the fuck is it," he hisses after a moment, slamming down the lid of nearby box.

Chuckler knows better than to ask. Instead, he leans back against the wooden pole supporting the roof of their tent and admires the view. Yes, it's true, lately he had begun to appreciate the subtlety of Hoosier's looks; the attractiveness which is hard to define, especially now, when he is suffering from a bout of early morning surliness. In general Hoosier isn't what Chuckler would call breathtaking, although something about him - especially when he laughs, low and throaty and genuine - leaves Chuckler breathless more often than he would care to admit. Despite his pale complexion he prefers to wander around shirtless – patches of red blossoming on his shoulders - and Chuckler finds himself distracted by it, teetering often on the verge of embarrassment from staring too hard. 

Right now, however, he's fully clothed and they're late for chow; Chuckler's stomach rumbles as if to emphasize the fact. Hoosier sighs, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed. After a moment he reaches down and draws back the blankets on Leckie's cot. Chuckler vaguely recalls an altercation from last night, but he hadn't really paid much attention; Hoosier and Leckie's arguments are becoming about as frequent as the rainfall had been on Gloucester. Chuckler suspects it's the close quarters and the heat, both made all the worse by boredom. Hoosier straightens, turns toward Chuckler and begins to unfasten the string knotted tight around one of the sacks. The material falls slack to reveal a familiar sight: sand. For a moment Chuckler is confused and looks to Hoosier for clarification. Hoosier just smiles lopsidedly around his smoke and reaches inside, grasps a handful of beige and proceeds to sprinkle it all over Leckie's blankets. 

Chuckler doesn't think it's much of a prank, given that they're surrounded by sand anyway, wind blowing granules of it up off the beach and through the camp. But he knows Leckie especially hates the sand - grumbles almost constantly about the way it gets trapped inside his clothes and scratches his skin - so Hoosier's little trick will no doubt annoy the hell out of his fellow Marine. When he's finished with the bed, Hoosier lets a shower of sand slip through his fingers and fall all over the neatly folded pile of clothes at the foot of the cot; he takes special care with the socks, which he lifts one by one and gifts with a handful of sand each. He spreads some more over the bookshelf; picks up a few of the books and sprinkles sand inside.

Hoosier's expression is one of pure vindictive glee, and Chuckler finds it oddly endaring, if a little scary. Hoosier can be an outright bitch, sure, but it's usually a lazy kind of bellyache, dished out from a distance. It takes a serious insult for him to get up off his behind and take a stand – clearly, Leckie has discovered just the right amount of aggrivation it takes to make Hoosier react. 

When both sacks are nearly empty, Hoosier takes them from Chuckler's hands and stuffs one inside the other. Chuckler doesn't ask what he's going to do with them - it's bad enough that he's been a witness to the crime – he doesn't need to know the details. “You realise he's going to know who did it straight away,” Chuckler offers, and Hoosier just smiles. Of course he knows that. And if Chuckler didn't know any better, he'd think that Hoosier actually kind of enjoys making Leckie angry and starting these fights – creating a war within a war. He supposes it's better than being bored. Besides, they're so used to having enemies now that it's almost like being in training. 

He stills when Hoosier wraps long fingers around his forearm, “Don't say anything.” As if he would – as if he could stand having any of Hoosier's anger directed at him. And Chuckler thinks maybe he understands how Runner might see him, now. Although he's pretty sure that Runner doesn't inhale deeply when he's too near and think _I love the way you smell_ , feeling a kind of giddy schoolgirl joy at the scent of another man's skin. Chuckler shakes his head, says, “Not a word.” Hoosier seems content with that, fishing another cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it up as he wanders off toward the mess – he doesn't look back and for that Chuckler is grateful, the air rushing back into his lungs all at once.


End file.
